


Had He the Motive and the Cue for Passion

by feverbeats



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"O that this too, too solid flesh would melt" and "To be or not to be" are sentiments that directly contradict the Master's philosophy on the matter of his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had He the Motive and the Cue for Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Hamlet_. For [](http://hokuton-punch.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**hokuton_punch**](http://hokuton-punch.dreamwidth.org/). ♥

  
The Master is wearing a doublet. This is not deeply unusual in and of itself. In fact, that Doctor wouldn't mind wearing one himself this time around, if he knew a good tailor. The difference is that this time, the Master is standing on the stage in a local theatre's production of _Hamlet_, a play the Doctor knows the Master hates.

The Doctor, who had to be badgered into this by Jo, turns to her and says, "We have a problem."

"What?" she whispers back. "It's only just started. Hamlet hasn't even—"

"A little more than kin, and less than kind." The Master sneers at Claudius.

Jo covers her mouth. "_Oh_." She looks closer, with a sort of horrified fascination. "But what's he doing in _Hamlet_?"

That, the Doctor has no answer to. "I've no idea. It hardly seems like something he'd do. There must be a larger game afoot." The way the Master's been lately, it's impossible to say what that game might be. An explosion seems unlikely, hypnosis more so.

As the play goes on, however, the Doctor becomes more and more troubled. The Master is speaking the lines with great feeling, as though he really means them, without even a smirk for the audience of one out in the crowd.

"O that this too, too solid flesh would melt" and "To be or not to be" are sentiments that directly contradict the Master's philosophy on the matter of his own life. But the performance is gripping, utterly and completely. The Master has always been a fantastic actor, although he usually puts it to a more practical use. On Gallifrey, theatre is not respected as a valid pursuit, which the Doctor now decides is a great pity. The Master would have been magnificent.

The Doctor shakes himself, wondering if he's under some sort of hypnosis after all.

"Doctor," Jo whispers next to him, sounding alarmed.

He turns, annoyed at the distraction. The Master speaking softly on stage as the play nears its climax. "What is it?"

"What's _that?_" Jo demands. She's pointing to the left side of the stage, where a large blueish cloud hovers in the wings.

The Doctor swears under his breath.

"Well?" Jo asks, and someone behind them shushes them.

The Doctor says to Jo, in a slightly louder voice, "I've seen them before, but never on this planet, and certainly not doing Shakespeare. They feed on energy created by emotion."

"But that's terrible!" Jo exclaims, not trying to keep her voice low anymore. "This theatre is full of people. Is it going to feed on _them?_"

The Doctor shakes his head. "It makes no sense. Humans don't have tangible emotions in that way. This predator wouldn't be able to—_damn_."

Jo looks at him expectantly.

"The Master," the Doctor says quickly. He hates taking time to explain what's going on to his assistants. "We're a psychic race. If they've made the _Master_ generate this powerful a reaction in this many people—" His brain catches up with his mouth. They've _made_ the Master do this. "Well, don't just sit there," he snaps.

Jo shoots out of her seat at once, nodding. "Where to?"

"The stage," the Doctor says.

By now, the Master is preparing to duel Laertes, holding a foil in one gloved hand. The Doctor knows he's got to pull the Master out of the play, breaking the emotional wave that's been building in the theatre before the predators devours the energy and everyone in the theatre along with it.

The Doctor leaps onto the stage and shoves Laertes out of the way unceremoniously. "Master," he says.

"Come on, sir," the Master says, raising his foil. The Doctor realizes that he's not going to stop doing the play. His mind is in too deep.

So the Doctor does what he always does, which is pick up a foil. He frowns. Why is it always swords with the Master?

They clash, foils whipping against each other with a clang.

This isn't going to work, though. The Master will keep speaking Earth Shakespeare as they fight, until everyone in the audience and on the stage is dead. The Doctor is somewhat at a loss. He considers phoning the Brigadier. Instead, he keeps fighting.

The Master's foil touches him and he hears one of the actors say, in a somewhat confused voice, that it's a hit. Laertes is standing to the side, looking uncertain. The Doctor swears again and throws himself back in.

Another clash, and the he realizes he's getting sucked in to the play and the emotional wave. The audience loves this. _Damn humans_. The Doctor will have to reach into the Master's mind and shut the psychic wave off at its source.

He slams into the Master's mind, fast and incautious because he has no time for anything else. The blue cloud, he dimly realizes, is much larger now. Jo is nowhere to be seen. All of these facts are background, though, to the roar of the Master's mind. It's a jumble of soliloquies (the mind-control) and anger (the Master's own), and for a moment the Doctor can't sort through it all.

He swings his sword wildly, but he trips, blinded by the psychic energy, and he tumbles against the Master instead, his fingers finding the Master's arms, then his graying temples. Then the fear and shame hit him, buried beneath the rage and _what a piece of work in man_, the Master's revulsion at being controlled.

_What a rogue and peasant slave am I_, the Doctor says into the Master's mind, forcing the words between the cracks in the sloppy hypnosis. The Master's mind is too strong for any hypnotism to be completely effective. The Doctor finds an alley of soliloquy, _riding_ the mind control and shoving other things through: his own exile from Gallifrey, told in Hamlet's words.

Then he's in, and he touches something in the Master's mind, like a little black dial with no numbers or markings on it. It hums and whirs and tries to push the Doctor away. This, the Doctor realizes, must be part of the Master's own power of hypnotism. He touches the dial again.

There is a great rush of sound, and it takes the Doctor a moment of confusion and withdrawing from the Master's mind before he realizes that the Master is screaming. Then he sees the Master realize the same thing and clamp his mouth shut.

"My dear Doctor," the Master says shakily. He doesn't go on.

They collapse against each other and then to the floor, too dignified this time to laugh.

The audience is frozen for a moment, but then they begin to clap. The Doctor rolls over for long enough to see Jo waving at him from the wings, where the blue cloud is nowhere to be seen. He wonders if she had anything to do with that.

"How embarrassing," the Master says, but he sounds nearly amused now.

"Quite," the Doctor agrees. He shakes off the lingering traces of the Master's mind, almost companionable in this regeneration.

"I loathe you," the Master remarks. He sits up and dusts off his doublet. "I loathe you and you're going to call the bloody Brigadier and tell him about this, aren't you?"

"They do say we're psychic," the Doctor returns coolly.

"Very well," the Master sighs. He stands. "Until next time, Doctor." He steps toward the arras and whisks it aside to reveal a cabinet that can only be his TARDIS. He gives a quick bow and steps inside.

The Doctor can't very well stop him. He turns to Jo. "Let's find a pay phone, shall we?"

"You're welcome," she says. "If I hadn't talked you into seeing this show, we'd never have saved all of these people."

The actors, however, are not looking particularly grateful.

"Of course, we saved the Master, too," Jo amends regretfully. "It's a pity."

"Mm," the Doctor says. His mind still tastes faintly of rage and nice gloves and unexpected camaraderie. "Let's be going, before we get into more trouble."

He'll have to thank Shakespeare someday, if he ever has a TARDIS again.


End file.
